It ran from just below her hand up to the tip of her littlest finger. The jagged line pigmentless, throwing into sharp relief the warm coloring of her skin.

The defensive wound never failed to fill her stomach with the ghost of her primal fear but she supposed she should count herself lucky. To this day she couldn’t imagine why the man had attacked. The police had said the drug induced mania had made the man so desperate that he was prepared to kill and loot in order to attain his fix. The only certainty was that if she hadn’t blocked his sweeping blade with her flesh she wouldn’t have a scar. Dead women do not heal, nor does the life in their womb.

She looked at her son then, full of pride and love so large she thought it might burst forth from her and sweep the land of all its dangers. She wished it would. Looking at the little boy of 2, she felt thankful for the scar and knew that she would take much worse and far more often.

During the attack, the man saw the woman block his knife with her bare hands. He scurried away in fear of the woman, for to block the blade, his drug addled mind told him, she herself must be made of iron.

He was right.